


Baker's Man

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, I'm sorry this is so shoooooort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 12:10:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8327317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: Eggsy is finishing putting the bread to rise when the bell over the shop door tinkles.
He hurries out of the kitchen to the shop, wiping his hands on his apron. He’s smiling, but it and the welcome on his lips die as soon as he sees who it is.
“Oh,” he says in disappointment. “It’s you.”





	

Eggsy is finishing putting the bread to rise when the bell over the shop door tinkles.

He hurries out of the kitchen to the shop, wiping his hands on his apron. He’s smiling, but it and the welcome on his lips die as soon as he sees who it is.

“Oh,” he says in disappointment. “It’s you.”

“Yes, it’s me,” Posh Bastard snaps. “Do you have any cinnamon rolls?”

“We do, as you should know, stalker,” Eggsy snarks venomously. He has no idea why Posh Bastard keeps coming back if he despises Eggsy so much, but at least he’s something for Eggsy to take out his morning grump on. They exchange insults as Eggsy wraps and boxes four large cinnamon rolls, and when Posh Bastard leaves there’s a twenty-quid note crumpled in the tip jar. Eggsy hadn’t seen it being placed, but that doesn’t matter. He plucks it free and tucks it in the till, then goes back to the kitchen.

Mum is with Dean this morning, nursing his hangover. Then she will take Daisy to play-group, then come to the bakery and work in the kitchen while Eggsy runs the shop during lunch rush. Then she will run back and pick Daisy up, and come home and try to cook dinner before Dean returns. Eggsy will stay in the bakery all day and work his arse off because customers don’t wait, they want their biscuits and pies and cakes now, now, _now_. Some will want mum’s cakes, some will want Eggsy’s, and some won’t care. People he knows will come in and want to chat at the worst times. People he doesn’t know will try to flirt and wheedle extras from him. Bureaucrats will come with papers and tablets and briefcases and leave angry that everything is up to code and completely within line.

But there will also be Mr. Hart.

Mr. Hart delivers things. He provides the bakery with fresh ingredients in the early morning, and he always comes in after the lunch rush, when Eggsy and mum have caught their breath, to purchase a box of scones. Blueberry scones, hold the icing, fifteen exactly. He says they’re for his coworkers. Eggsy doesn’t believe him, but that hardly matters. What matters is that Mr. Hart is _kind_.

Just as Eggsy begins to contemplate that, pouring muffin batter into tins, the doorbell tinkles once more. Eggsy hurries to drip the last drop in the last tin, wipes his hands, and exits the kitchen, certain that it’s Mr. Hart with the morning deliveries.

No, it’s Ryan and Jamal, who take one look at Eggsy’s disappointed face and smirk.

“Sorry we’re late,” Jamal apologises cheerfully. He’s not at all apologetic. “Shithead here had a girlfriend over last night.”

“You coulda come without me,” Ryan points out caustically, but he grins as Eggsy scowls. “Sorry. So what are we baking today?”

“Muffins. Clean up and get your aprons, we’re gonna have a busy day.” He can feel it in his bones. Today is going to be horrible.

With three of them mixing and kneading and flavoring and forming, the work progresses steadily. Eggsy takes the things he’d started at 4AM out and fills the cases. Posh Bastard knows to the second when Eggsy opens the shop; it takes the rest of the neighborhood a while to wake up and decide to have breakfast. But the moment he slips behind the counter, a sleepy-eyed woman comes in and purchases a cinnamon roll and three triple-chocolate muffins. Right on her heels are a pair of teens who look like they haven’t seen their beds in at least two days. One clutches coffee, the other tea, and both buy cream cheese Danishes. And right after them is one of their regulars, a man who scowls to see that it’s Eggsy and not mum working the shop today, but purchases a dozen doughnuts anyway.

No sign of Mr. Hart.

6AM comes and goes. Eggsy sends Ryan and Jamal out to mind the shop while he mixes batter with a little too much vigor and adds flavorings and seasonings a little too liberally. If Mr. Hart isn’t here by seven, he’s not going to be. This has happened before, and they’re not actually low on anything, but Eggsy can’t help feeling annoyed.

The second batch of bread is ready to come out of the oven. Eggsy braces himself and faces the intense heat with valor. It may be spring outside, but here in the kitchen, it’s high summer. Baking ovens in constant use get _hot_.

Raised voices out in the shop. Eggsy focuses on stowing bread on the cooling racks before hurrying out, well aware that if there’s an altercation, it’ll be down on his and mum’s heads. But customers and bread don’t wait.

In fact, the raised voices are a mum and dad fighting over what kind of muffin they should buy their kid, who is clearly longing for a banana nut (another reason to wish Mr. Hart were here; they’re out of bananas and mum doesn’t believe in frozen fruit). Jamal and Ryan, and the other three customers, are studiously not looking. Eggsy glares at them all, then walks right up to the arguing couple and suggests politely, “Excuse me, but perhaps you’d like to take this outside? You’re upsetting the other customers.”

“And who the he—heck are you?” the man snarls, rounding on Eggsy. He must not be that upset, if he’s catching his language so quickly.

“I’m the owner,” Eggsy answers simply. It’s a lie, of course; mum’s the owner, and not even Dean can touch this place. But when mum’s not here, Eggsy is as good as. “So either settle your differences or leave.” His glare includes both parents, and both glare right back, plainly not ready to settle.

The child, a little one with buzzed hair and a pink dress, tugs on Eggsy’s apron. When he looks and reflexively smiles, the child says tentatively, “Can I have a ‘nana-nut, Mr. Baker?”

His gut sours, but he keeps the smile. “Sure. Go ahead and pick one out.”

The kid beams and rushes to do so. Mum and dad immediately start shouting at Eggsy. He answers, lowly and tersely, that the only reason he hasn’t thrown them out is the child. Dad challenges him. Eggsy’s fists clench, anger rises in his gut, and he almost starts shouting back—

Another tug on his apron. He shutters his anger and smiles again as he looks down at the kid. “Got one all picked out?” he asks, a redundant question, since the child is clutching a muffin and has even taken a bite out of it, it seems. Eggsy knows that Ryan and Jamal, softies though they are, would never let anyone taste the merchandise before deciding which to get. “Right, put it up on the counter and _somebody_ ,” with a glare at the parents “Will pay for it.”

“I’ve got money,” the child pipes up, and holds out a wad of notes.

Eggsy’s heart feels like it’s being rolled into a dough-rope. Not a pleasant feeling at all. “No, wee, you keep that. Save up for something special.”

Everyone is staring, except the child, who wrinkles their nose thoughtfully before walking right past their parents and putting the muffin on the counter. Jamal quickly rings it up. Finally, Fighting Mum relents with a scowl and takes a wallet out of her purse to pay. With the child leading gleefully, the family exit the shop, parents grumbling.

Wearily, Eggsy plods back to the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck.

He’s rolling out dough for pies when a dry voice says from the doorway, “Delivery for you, Baker-Boy.”

Eggsy spins so fast he almost takes the dough with him, and beams at the man standing just inside the kitchen carrying a crateful of milk products. “Gally! You’re late!” Eggsy berates him, but there’s no heat in the tone, and he’s still smiling.

Mr. Hart—his name is Harry, but Eggsy likes to call him Gally, short for Galahad—smiles back, a small quirk of his lips, and sets the crate down on the unused end of the long kitchen table, beginning to put the milks and creams and butters in the fridge. He’s a good enough friend, he’s allowed to do that. Also Eggsy likes watching him lift heavy things; his shirt fits him well, which means his muscles are clearly visible when they flex. But he can’t spend longer than a few seconds gazing appreciatively before he has to go back to work.

Ryan pokes his head in through the door and hisses, “Eggsy, Posh Bastard is back! He won’t buy anything until you come out!”

Eggsy’s good mood at Mr. Hart’s appearance sours, and he growls exasperatedly, finishing arranging the apple slices before wiping his hands on his apron and stomping towards the door. Mr. Hart stands out of his way, but finishes putting away the milk and follows Eggsy.

“Really, Charlie, this is outside of enough,” a snobbish voice is exclaiming as Eggsy steps through and into the shop proper. “We’ve been here every day this month, I’m tired of—“

“Eggsy!”

Eggsy’s scowl turns to a grin as he sees the shortest member of Posh Bastard’s posse. “Rox! Apple turnover?” he asks, completely ignoring the snobs. “Jamal put in too much cinnamon again.”

Roxy throws Jamal an amused look as the young man blushes and scowls at Eggsy. “Too much cinnamon is exactly the right amount,” she announces. “I’ll have three.”

For a wonder, Posh Bastard and his pals wait while Eggsy and Roxy chat and Jamal rings up the turnovers. Mr. Hart leans in the corner, arms crossed, watching them all thoughtfully. Eggsy is aware at all times of Mr. Hart’s presence. It makes his skin tingle and his veins fizz. He loves feeling Mr. Hart’s gaze on him.

That gaze grounds him and keeps him from being downright vicious to Posh Bastard; instead, he just snaps a little and pretends not to see as Posh Bastard slips a fifty-quid note into the tip jar. No one else seems to notice, anyway. The other posh bastards glare at Eggsy as if he insulted their mothers; he glares right back, until they all leave. Then he plucks the fifty from the tip jar and shoves it in the till.

“Why does he always leave a tip like that?” Ryan asks, confused, as he comes up behind Eggsy and Jamal.

“He fancies Eggsy,” Mr. Hart observes, making all three youngsters jump. His eyes are flat, expression calm.

Eggsy gives a bark of disbelieving laughter. “No. No, he just wants to ensure I don’t start turning him away at the door.”

“Why don’t you?” Mr. Hart asks.

“Because he pays well,” Eggsy replies bitterly. “Mum said to let him come in, as long as he keeps paying us extra. She’s never here when he is, though, so she doesn’t—“

Dean walks in.

All three boys immediately draw a little closer together. Mr. Hart straightens, eyes on Eggsy and not the very real threat in the middle of the shop.

“Where’s yer mum?” Dean grunts, glaring at Eggsy.

“Dunno,” Eggsy replies shortly.

“She was supposed to be here an hour ago.”

“I dunno where she is. Maybe traffic’s bad.”

Dean sneers in disbelief—then notices Mr. Hart. The older man turns his head almost lazily, and stares at Dean. They continue their alpha stare-down long enough for it to get ridiculous before someone enters the shop, notices the contest, and makes to leave.

Mr. Hart blinks, and turns lazily to the customer, smiling charmingly. “Hello, Percival,” he says, and Dean whips around. The customer, a man perhaps a little younger than Dean, smiles back at Mr. Hart.

“Harry. Almost didn’t recognize you.” Percival steps forward again, brushing past Dean with a polite nod before shaking Mr. Hart’s hand. “Have you seen my little sister?”

“Yes, she was just in. Why is she still hanging around Charlie and his crowd?”

“Because, and I quote, “Jamal makes the best turnovers”.”

Jamal blushes and looks at his feet as Ryan turns to him with an almost betrayed expression. Eggsy smirks. Dean looks furious.

“And she can’t find her way here on her own?” Mr. Hart asks, amused.

“You know Roxy. She’s always practicing.” And with that cryptic statement, Percival turned to the three boys behind the counter. “Which one of you is Jamal?” he asks pleasantly.

Eggsy nudges Jamal with his elbow. The other finally looks up, hiding his discomfort behind a mask of indifference.

“I was wondering if you had any of those turnovers left,” Percival elaborates, smiling faintly, eyes glinting behind his glasses.

“Oh. Yes. Um. Here.”

Everyone stands around silently and watches as Percival purchases a turnover from Jamal, bites into it, and makes an almost indecent noise of delight.

“She wasn’t kidding,” he gets out around a full mouth, and attacks the pastry right there in the middle of the shop, devouring it faster than anyone Eggsy has ever seen. Then he buys two more, thanks Jamal, nods to everyone else, and walks out.

“Well, he hasn’t changed,” Mr. Hart comments lowly, even more amused. Then he turns to Eggsy and informs him casually, “I have other deliveries to make. Shall I come by tomorrow to collect the crates?”

“Yeah, sure, Gal—um, Mr. Hart.”

Mr. Hart smiles at him, just him, a smile that beams at Eggsy brighter than any star or sun, and follows Percival out the door.

Eggsy finds that he himself is grinning giddily. Jamal and Ryan are smirking, and Dean looks absolutely furious.

“Who was that codger?” Dean demands.

“No one,” Eggsy replies, turning to the kitchen. “Just a friend.”


End file.
